Primitive (Dark Powers Rising Book 2)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  I turn to Pascha, “Do you think they made it?”

  “Yes, I’m sure they did. My mother said she remembered the roads. She had a friend here. It was this village we got to first when we escaped the towns. It was full then and they sent us on to Bale.”

  I have to know if Mother and Jey have got here safely and begin to walk then run down the final stretch of road to the village, the backpack thumping and jangling on my back. As I get to the wall of the first cottage, a door in the third house opens and my mother steps out into the greyness of the morning. I run faster towards her open arms and the pain in my chest bursts out into tears as she wraps them around me. She feels tiny in my arms yet her embrace is strong. “We’re all here Merry. Jey and Celeste too.”

  “Thank God you made it.”

  I put out my arms to hold Jey as Celeste reaches for Pascha then Ria and Ish too. I look up with relief and notice that Bettrice stands back, alone.

  I guess she feels out of place and put my hand out to her. “Mother this is Bettrice.”

  “The Watcher’s Wife?” she asks confused.

  “Yes, but she’s one of us now.”

  Bettrice takes my hand and we walk together up the stone path to the cottage.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The house mother and Celeste have chosen to set up ‘home’ sits surrounded by a wild garden where self-set trees are growing tall. Free-growing shrubs obscure the windows and the door is half hidden beneath a porch trellis overgrown with a barbed rose and the thick brown twine of what looks like a honeysuckle. It feels hidden; a hidden house within a hidden village. I bend low and push the barbs away from me to get through the front door and walk into a dingy hallway. The staircase to the next floor is immediately to my right. Its uncarpeted treads are painted black with colourfully painted names, curled and pretty on the facing boards: Ellin, Isacke, Oliver, Joie, Sara, Benet—the names of the people who were living happily in this village until something dreadful happened to them.

  “They were our friends,” Celeste interrupts my thoughts. “Sara and Benet. We used to visit—me and Tristan and the kids, when we first settled in the village, before ...”

  I look up and see the tears in her eyes.

  “What happened to them?” I ask, recalling the pile of bodies in the garden next door.

  “I don’t know. We lost touch once the Primitives came. It looks as though they left in a hurry. When we got here the door wasn’t locked and nothing seems to have been taken, but the chairs in the kitchen—and the table—were knocked over.”

  “I think the village may have been attacked. We came here a few weeks ago and picked over the house next door. There’s something awful in the garden there.” I stop and take a calming breath before I tell her. “A pile of bodies. I think there are children too,” I say gently.

  She sags a little and shakes her head. “Oh no!” she exclaims and then moans quietly before becoming silent.

  I wait.

  “If it is them at least they are free now,” she says with deep sorrow in her voice. “Excuse me Meriall, I need to be on my own for a while.”

  She walks away from me and down the hallway. Bettrice puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “In the early days—if they resisted …” and her voice trails off, but I know exactly what she means, “in the early days, when they were fighting for control, they were even more cruel,” she finishes.

  “They’re animals Bettrice. Just animals,” I say vehemently.

  “They’re evil,” she adds with hatred. “Monsters forcing everyone under their control. It’s like there’s a war between God and the Devil. The Primitives are the devil’s soldiers. They claim their Book is from God but it is really the devil that wrote it—or five devils.”

  “The Founding Fathers?”

  “Yes, they are the truly evil ones. They’re the ones leading the others to torture us or burn us if we don’t do as they say. They’re the ones who use us and sell us to the highest bidder.”

  The anger in her words makes my belly tight with anger too. One day they will fall and suffer and I want to be the one who makes it happen.

  There is much to do to make the house habitable. We all need to eat and so the rest of the day is spent looking for enough wood for the fires and food for our bellies. Dark comes quickly and by early evening we have built up the fire in the living room, confident that the night will hide the smoke. The cold and damp is pushed to the corners and an orange glow covers the two sofas we have pulled closer together. In the kitchen, an oil lamp burns gently and casts shadows on the ceiling, filling the air with the smell of paraffin.

  This place is a paradise compared to our village and me and Bettrice have collected enough carrots, potatoes and parsnips to make a vegetable broth. Jey and Ish snared two rabbits that have been roasted in the stove with rosemary, clipped from a shrub growing at the back door. The gardens are wild now, but the vegetable plots that were hoed and seeded and harvested in the past, are still growing their crops. Some apples hang from the trees, although most have fallen and are rotting on the ground, and we’ve picked them and baked them in the oven. There are even some nettles that haven’t rotted down and Ria has harvested them and brewed them into a tea. We sit eating our feast and laugh in front of the warm fire.

  The sofa is soft and inviting and I sit with my legs beneath me, my head on mother’s shoulder, enjoying this moment and wonder at how I can be so at peace given the awful predicament we are in. My leather jacket is too warm for me now and I take it off, pulling up the sleeves of my jumper to my elbows and cuddle in a little further to her. She’s thin - too thin - and I can feel the ribs above her flattened breast against my cheek. I move back a little not wanting to press too hard on her thinness. I know she is strong yet she feels fragile. Perhaps, if we can stay here long enough, she will become more womanly again.

  Her sharp voice breaks into my thoughts. “Meriall! What is that on your arm?”

  I had forgotten about the tattoo when I pulled up my sleeve and she can see the dark patch of red and black in the glow of the fire. I begin to cover it but stop myself. No. I will show her.

  “It’s a tattoo—for Tristan—for us.”

  “Let me see,” she demands, grabbing my arm and pulling it to her. “It’s a fine mess!” she declares, squinting down. “What is it supposed to be?”

  Irked, I look down. Still red and sore, the arrow is difficult to make out.

  “It’s an arrow—like the ones on Tristan’s tree,” I explain.

  She sucks in her breath, sits quietly for a moment and then hugs me to her.

  “Tristan was a very special man,” she says quietly, stroking the top of my arm. “We all stood behind him when he tried to defend the village. They were too strong. Anyone who stood up to them was punished. Some people managed to escape from the village when the Primitives came, but Tristan, Celeste and me, we decided to stay. We had children to protect and at least some security under the Rule and, you know, we didn’t dare to leave—we didn’t know what was out there—or rather we did—what we’d already escaped from was out there. The Primitives seemed to be a better alternative at the time, at least, before the Collections started.” Her voice chokes at the memory.

  I listen to her carefully. It’s the most she’s ever spoken about Tristan.

  “There was nothing we could do when they caught him. Nothing. We begged and we shouted, but they had no mercy.”

  A small moan trembles from her lips and the tears begin to flow as the memories flick at her pain again. A sob across the room. Celeste sits hunched, hands holding her bowed head.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say gently, “but Tristan’s memory and what he did … how he died … can’t be forgotten. He knew the Primitives had to be stopped and we have to carry on his work.”

  “‘We’? How can we stop them? There are hundreds of them and only seven of us!” Ria speaks up.

  “Yes, there are only seven of us here, but t
here are hundreds of others like us! Other people who want to be free of the Primitives. We can’t let them destroy our lives. We have to show them that we can’t be bought and sold like animals!”

  “And how do you suggest we do that?” Ish asks scathingly.

  My heart lurches for the boy with the constant smile.

  “I don’t know yet. I just know that I can’t let them take me or my sister or you two, or Pascha and sell them to the highest bidder.”

  “We should just run away. Get as far away from here as possible,” Bettrice’s scared voice breaks in. “You can’t defeat them. They’re more powerful than you realise. It’s not just your village that they control, they have hundreds of villages and allies. They trade with other gangs in other territories too.”

  My heart sinks as Bettrice chips away at my ignorance and I realise that I know nothing of what the Primitives really are, apart from what they have let me know.

  “No!” Ria blurts. “We’re not going to run.” I’m surprised at the determination in her voice. “Meriall’s right. There may only be seven of us, but there must be others like us. We just have to find them.”

  She turns to me, the pain she feels spilling over as tears. “I want to fight them. I want to be like you and Pascha.” She rolls up her sleeve and turns her arm over, uncovering the soft skin of her forearm. “Give me an arrow Meriall,” she demands.

  “Ok,” I say softly as I step forward and wrap her in my arms, wanting to soothe the suffering of the past weeks away.

  “Yes, and me,” Jey says as she puts her arm about Ria’s shoulder. “I’d rather die fighting than belong to them!” she adds.

  I look at them both. So young, so beautiful, so vulnerable.

  “They killed my mother and my father for nothing—for teaching us about who we are and giving us hope,” Ria sobs into my chest. “I’m going to fight them until the last breath has left my body!” she says with rising anger.

  Ish softens, and puts his arm around his sister, gently hugging her to him. “Me too Meriall,” he says. “We’ve made the first move. We’ve left the village and I’m not going back.”

  I look over to Pascha. He nods to me and pulls up his sleeve, showing his tattoo to the others. “I want to carry on what my father started. He had the courage to stand up to them and so do we. There may be only seven of us here, but it’s a start.”

  “Meriall,” Bettrice interrupts, her voice soft, her eyes wet with tears, “I want to be free too.”

  “You can be,” I smile to her. “You’re one of us now. We’ll all be free, together.”

  “I know, it’s just—my face.” She stops and lowers her eyes.

  “Your face?” I question, confused.

  “Yes, my face. Their mark. It tells everyone that they own me,” she replies, looking at me once more, the desperation plain to see. “I need to get rid of it,” she says touching the place on her chin where the blue circle sits. “Every time I see it or think about it, it reminds me that I was sold. I want to be free again!”

  I nod in understanding, but how we can get rid of the tattoo is unknown to me.

  “Can we do it now?” Jey interrupts my thoughts. “The tattoos? Can you do them tonight?”

  I remember the pot of ash from Tristan’s tree in my rucksack.

  “Yes,” I reply, “we can do them now if we can find a needle. But how are we going to get rid of Bettrice’s mark?”

  There’s silence in the room for a moment.

  “We could burn it off,” Bettrice suggests.

  “Uggh!”

  “No, that would be too dangerous and leave a nasty scar,” Celeste warns.

  “And painful!” Jey exclaims.

  “We’ll have to cut it out then,” Bettrice says, her voice matter of fact. “If we can’t burn it off then it’ll just have to be cut off,” she insists and I look to her in surprise. Her determination is absolute and I know she’ll burn it off if she has to.

  “Ok, then,” I agree, “we’ll have to figure out a way of cutting it out.”

  The circle on her chin is small, about the size of an apple pip, and I stare at it through the glowing light.

  “It would hurt!” I say, cringing at the thought of cutting into her face, ‘Perhaps too much.”

  “I don’t care about the pain: I just want it gone. Please! Help me.”

  “We can do it,” Celeste speaks up from her seat in the corner of the sofa, “we’ll just need a sharp knife and maybe a needle and thread.”

  I wince at the thought.

  Celeste walks up to Bettrice, kneels down before her, gently tilts her chin, holds it between her thumb and fingers, and looks intently at the circle. “Those animals,” she mutters under her breath and straightens up with a new determination. “Yes, I’ll cut it out. We can get rid of this mark and then you lot can have your tattoos,” she says smiling quietly to Pascha. “Boys, we’ll need a sharp blade, a craft knife or Stanley knife, something like that. Oh, and a knife sharpener. Meriall and Jey, you need to find some needles and thread, a sewing kit.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Pascha says, with an overly low and serious voice, and salutes his mother. “I’ll check the garage,” he says and pulls Ish into the kitchen to find a lamp to light their way.

  Jey walks through to the kitchen too and beckons me to follow her. “Come on, let’s check the kitchen first.”

  The kitchen is darker now without the second light so I put another couple of logs onto the stove and keep the door open. If we hold the oil lamp up close, to where we are looking, we can see quite well. The first cupboards and drawers are almost empty, but in the third is a small, green plastic box with a white plastic clasp and next to it an old, purple metal tin. I reach for the tin first. It is pitted with rust and feels rough in my hands. The top of the tin reads, ‘Fox’s more yum per crumb’ and ‘Vinnie’s biscwits selection’. There is a picture of a white bear with rings of black round its eyes eating what I guess is a ‘biscwit’. The lid is a little rusted and I have to edge my fingers around and prise it off. I’m disappointed; rags and buttons. I rummage through and a needle finds me, pricking my finger. I lift my hand and the needle lifts up out of the box along with thread and the needle case it’s pinned to.

  “I’ve got a sewing kit!” I shout through to Mother and Celeste.

  The green box is a makeshift medicine kit with scissors, a bandage and a single antiseptic wipe still in its packaging. I can’t bear the thought of Bettrice being stitched and continue looking for plasters or something to pull the wound together. I pull open a drawer; nothing. Rummaging through the second drawer I find what I’m looking for, a small tube with ‘super glue’ emblazoned along the side in red. It has been opened and the lid is completely stuck but there is still glue inside. I put our findings on the table. Mother walks into the kitchen just as Pascha and Ish shout out that they have found a blade. “It’s not sharp though.”

  “Look for a knife sharpener in the draws,” instructs Mother as she puts a pan of water on the stove top to boil.

  “I’ve got a tube of glue,” I say triumphant, waving the tube above my head.

  Celeste looks at me with curiosity then a smile of realisation curls on her lips as I place the glue in her hands.

  “Well done, Meriall. This might just work,” she says, peering at the writing on the tube. She turns to Bettrice, “If you lay on the kitchen table it will be easier for me to work. Hop up.” Celeste pats the scrubbed wooden top. “Jey. Ria. Hold up the lamps to throw as much light as you can on Bettrice’s chin please,” she instructs and I wonder why she is so calm, and so knowledgeable about doing this, until Pascha nudges me.

  “She was a nurse. During the wars.”

  “Ahh!” I nod and watch with fascination as Celeste holds Bettrice’s chin firmly and tilts it to the light.

  “Meriall. Pascha. Hold her shoulders down to the table. This will hurt and I need her to stay as still as possible.”

  Bettrice moans lightly.

 
“Don’t worry Bettrice. I can do this,” she reassures her. “Are you ready?”

  Bettrice flutters her eyelids nervously and makes a tiny nod of consent.

  “I’m sorry,” Celeste says looking into Bettrice’s eyes, apologising for the pain she will cause before she makes the first cut.

  I watch transfixed as she takes the blade in her right hand and makes a confident, if tiny, arced slice from the top of one side of the blue circle to the other. Bettrice sucks in air through gritted teeth and closes her eyelids hard, but stays stock still. A tiny crescent of pink opens up in the skin and blood begins to seep. Celeste wipes it away with one of the sterilised cloths.

  “Are you ok?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Then I will continue.”

  She makes another arced cut beneath the circle joining one cut to the other, carving out the shape of an eye. Again she wipes away the blood.

  “I’ve made the cut Bettrice and now I need to cut off the skin. Can I continue?”

  Again Bettrice consents.

  “Esther, please hold her head still.” My mother takes her head gently between her hands holding it firm. She takes the blade at an angle and begins to slice beneath the eye cut onto Bettrice’s chin. She lets out a low moan, her muscles tense. I keep a firm yet gentle pressure on her shoulder down towards the table as Celeste makes a horizontal slice and peels back the tattooed skin to reveal a narrow eye of red flesh beneath. She dabs at the blood seeping from the wound.